It's a Dad's Life Adam BrophyCork city got me on a bad week; I would have complained if my numbers came up in the lottery and I had to drive to head office to pick up the cheque.
People had warned me the marathon fallout would involve adopting a Stauntonesque demeanour, and so, during the aftermath, we arranged an impromptu weekend away. The kids decided to enter headwreck- with-a-vengeance mode as we travelled. Someone - no, everyone - had to pay.
The Missus had to do a day's work in Cork, which we turned into a stop-off on our way west. Tired and cranky, we tried to enjoy a family meal in the hotel's restaurant the night we arrived in town. I pitied the poor diners around us as the volume escalated and tempers frayed further. We accepted defeat and had the food sent to the room, where we discovered it to be inedible. As we pushed the lumpen, turgid mess around our plates, we noticed the monsters had found they could open the door and were running screaming around the second floor. We take our roles of responsible adults seriously, so we did the only thing we could do: shut the door and wait for the manager to drag them back to the room.
For the three nights away, we averaged five hours' kip. We suffered tantrum after demand after flat refusal to comply. We ate out or ordered takeaway four times. Each time the food was either a greasy combination of MSG and lard or, if it turned out to be tasty, only a certain amount of the order had been supplied. The one consistent factor was it was overpriced. I moaned everywhere about the service and became further stressed at having to adopt the role of complainant. I was worn out and up for a fight, and everyone seemed to be asking for one.
There are two things at issue here. The first is so obvious and well-worn it merits just a cursory snipe. You only have to spend a couple of days sampling the tourist delights of our proud nation to see we deserve a collective smack in the mouth for trying to pass off cider-levels of service and supply at champagne prices. If the backlash doesn't happen soon, I can only presume other nations are even worse gougers than us and we have no reason to feel proud of that.
The other is a personal one. When is it okay to acknowledge that going away for a "short break" with your offspring is anything other than a horrid mistake? Sure, watching them run riot and scream with delight at the cruel mayhem they can cause in fresh environments provides a vicarious thrill, but it's always at someone else's expense. Usually it's your own, but sometimes innocent strangers are dragged into the mire. These casualties of war have not bargained on their senses being over-run by my progeny, and I have not bargained on spending my weekend as a moderator and apologist.
Currently, much debate in our family has to do with an impending wedding in New York State next year. I have never been to the US, and this wedding is a window to a world of favourite film scenes. I am a "naif" and itching to savour every part of the experience with the bug-eyed enthusiasm of a Paddy straight off a coffin-ship. What I don't want is to spend all day moving from toyshops to TGI Fridays biting my lip so as not to be a "negative" parent. I say leave the monsters with Granny; the Missus cannot bear the burden of guilt.
New York for me is smoky bars with whisky bottles glinting in amber light, as frequented by Sean Penn and Gary Oldman in State of Grace. I don't think the kids will get in. Am I so bad?
abrophy@irish-times.ie
